Superstitions
by YnitOcelot
Summary: The lads are undercover in a theatre to bring down the person behind a drug ring.


Disclaimer: I don't own all the characters and will not use them for money or immoral gain. I will however still write about them.

PS This story was partly an excuse to write a bit in my own accent. Sorry.

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_DC Victor Michel peeked furtively behind him as he crept into the alleyway near the theatre. Fingering the evidence tucked in his jacket he waited in the cold He wanted to get home, Jessica had hoped he wouldn't be too late; Caroline had just turned three and was demanding Daddy to come and read her a story every night. Blowing on his fingers he returned to his vigil. _

_It wasn't long before he heard footsteps, splashing in the puddles. He turned – onto the point of a knife. The searing ice shot through his stomach and he dropped to his knees. His attacker wrenched the knife out of him, ignoring the bubbling groan that forced its way out from between his lips. Coldly and with a calculating aim the knife split the young policeman's skull. The body slipped to the muck of the street but before it did a hand lifted the pictures and papers out of the pocket. Then the shadow was gone and there was nothing but a huddled coat lying forlornly in the night._

Mr Cowley didn't like what he had been told. The police had lost the evidence, and a detective in the same night and they were no closer to cracking the drug ring. Frustrated he poured himself a tipple of Scotch and then flicked through whatever proof that they had. Drugs were one of the worst evils he decided. He sighed and then turned his attention back to the files.

"You know what they say about theatre people don't you?"

"No, I don't know what they say about theatre people."

"Honestly? And you go to performances too…"

"Just because you can't be bothered with culture, what do they say about theatre people?"

"They're all mad." Doyle raised his shoulders to the sky in an exaggerated shrug. Sometimes Bodie could be the most infuriating person he had ever met. He turned his attention back to the set Bodie was supposed to be helping him with. It was heavy and cumbersome.

"Hey you!" Both he and Bodie turned at the sound of the annoyed voice. Joseph Roberson, the head of the backstage crew they were posing as was glaring at them. He was dark haired and dressed in a formal shirt and tie. His nose was broken hinting at a wilder youth. Bodie immediately gave him an insolent grin. "You get paid for working, not chatting!" He stalked away as Doyle muttered,

"Sounds like Cowley." Bodie chuckled and then they got to work; keeping their eyes and ears open for any signs of illegal drug running.

Doyle began to whistle tunelessly as he stacked the boxes. He was suddenly interrupted by a tap on his shoulder. He turned around to see one of the techs daughters with her arms folded.

"You're not supposed to whistle backstage," the young teen informed him seriously in a funny rough accent.

"Oh, sorry," Doyle said, "is it bad luck?" she gave him a 'look'.

"Do ye count gettin' hit by one of those big sacks as bad luck?"

Bodie was whistling until Doyle tapped him on the shoulder.

"Don't do that."

"C'mon don't tell me you believe all that…"

"No, the stagehands use whistle codes for the sets and props; up and to including those giant weights up there." Bodie looked up and – spotting one of the aforementioned quickly shut his trap. Then he frowned. "There's a thought."

"Wow! You can think?" he glared at Doyle.

"Ha ha, very funny. No, that would be the perfect way to murder someone. Rope comes untied and smack! No head."

"And," his partner continued, "no foul play." Both of them glanced at the sacks swinging ominously overhead.

"That's an accident waiting to happen if I ever saw one," Bodie observed moodily. As they finished shifting the boxes they didn't notice someone watching from the shadows of the crimson curtain. Watching with the hungry air of a wolf stalking its prey…

The excitement hit just before the evening performance. The pair was helping with the effects crew, lugging the boxes of wires and other gizmos that they required, as well as listening to the gossip. The subject of the murder was a popular topic of debate among the younger members but the others viewed it with a sort of dim worry.

"It's verra bad," a heavyset Scottish man named Roy confided to Bodie. His accent was thick and he was having trouble following some of it. "It's just bin one problem after another." Bodie was immediately intrigued.

"How?" he asked. The man looked over and shrugged.

"The fella you replaced; Michael, hurt himself quite badly backstage. Nae unusual but he swears it was completely dark."

"What's wrong with that?" Roy pointed across from them to a corner just off the stage.

"Do ye ken that light there? The yella one? That's the Ghost Light. It doesnae get turned off at nigh'. Auld superstition, we're an irrational lot, but tha' light is always burnin'. The spirits o' the place like tae be able tae see and," he chuckled wryly and Bodie found himself warming to this rough bloke, "fer a matter o' fact we like tae as well!" His mood suddenly became more sombre. "Shame aboot that poor lad. Was thinkin' of making tha' girl o' mine stay at home but she was insistent that she help."

"You mentioned other problems," Bodie prompted; feeling like he was getting somewhere.

"Aye, I did. The instruments keep breakin' an' it's doing our heids in. Mister Roberson keeps takin' them awa' tae be fixed but it a'ways takes a while. Wee Cassie Weaver broke her arm when she slipped on some o' the mess."

"Wait, what was that about the instruments?"

"They keep breakin' laddie, mostly seems tae be the trumpets and suich like." Before Bodie had a chance to ask another question a shrill scream split the air.

Doyle glanced up and saw what had happened. One of the part-time crew who had been working on the gantry above the stage had slipped and was now hanging precariously by her arms. Her feet kicked wildly as she attempted to haul herself up. Doyle spotted the ladder leading and swung himself onto it. Several others were converging and he could hear them calling up to her. The metal was cool under his palms as he began to climb it.

Bodie and Roy's gazes swivelled together towards the source. Roy's face immediately blanched.

"Tha's Eppie!" he exclaimed in shock. Then, forgetting everything else he shot towards the stage.

Doyle eased himself onto the gantry and began to inch towards the girl. He suddenly recognised her from earlier. He saw what had happened. A couple of the lights were further out and to get to them you would have to crawl through a small gap which few of the adults would have fitted under. If he tried he could get his shoulders through and reach the teen. He knocked something with his foot. It skittered over the side, wheeling in the air before hitting the stage with a dull thud. It was part of a safety harness.

"Just hang on, ok?" The girl stared at him as if he was mad.

"I am!" The half-squeak caught in her throat. Doyle manoeuvred himself so he was closer and then crouched down and reached through. He was just an inch or two too far away to actually grab her.

"What's your name?"

"Eppie,"

"Ok Eppie, I can't quite reach you from here. I need you to let go with one hand and then grab my hand alright?"

"I'm not goin' tae let go!"

"You're going to have to, just let go and reach up." Trying to keep his voice reassuring he looked seriously at her. He wasn't exactly how to talk to children but he was doing his best. The pale face began to turn and Doyle ordered in a no-nonsense voice.

"Don't look down, just let go and grab my hand alright?" Tears streamed down her face from pure terror.

"Don't wanna!"

"Eppie!" Doyle nearly jumped at Roy's voice. The man crouched behind him and started speaking soothingly to his daughter in what Doyle assumed was Gaelic. The crying slowed to hiccupping and Roy then spoke to Doyle.

"I've got a harness lad, ye dinnae. I cannae fit through there. I've got ye and tell me when ye've got her," Doyle nodded and then stretched his hand out again. Roy had a tight hold on his shoulder. With a breath Eppie let go. Doyle gripped her around the wrist and then grunting from the effort managed to partially pull her onto the surface where Roy was able to reach her. Finally the hysterical girl was heaved back onto the gantry. There was a cheer from the watching audience.

"Nice one," Bodie called at Doyle. Doyle grinned back.

"Feels good to be a rescuer for once," he joked.

Eppie had been put in the care of her father and apart from two skinned knees and an adrenalin rush was none the worse for her experience. However it was the cause of her fall that was worrying the crew. Eppie was a good climber, often volunteering to go up and fix the lights. It had transpired that her harness had not been put together correctly and had come apart when she was checking the more difficult to reach ones and had subsequently fallen. Luckily she had already been holding on to the lights so had not tumbled all the way to the stage. Doyle shuddered when he thought of what could have happened.

"Someone's trying stop the performance." Bodie muttered.

"What makes you say that?" Doyle asked. Bodie quickly relayed the information about the instruments.

"I think the person behind this is breaking them and then smuggling the drugs out inside." Bodie finished. Doyle nodded.

"People would never suspect that. Say what you like but that is an ingenious way of doing it."

Bodie slipped into the store cupboard, fingering his radio. Two of them sneaking away during a show would cause too much suspicion and Bodie had lost the coin toss. The cupboard was dim and several times he nearly knocked over an unidentified prop. Eventually he found the broken instruments. Carefully he knelt and examined them. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary… glancing over his shoulder he eased his hand down the hole. His questing fingers found small plastic bags taped onto the sides. He grinned.

That's when everything went wrong. His warning came in the form of the faintest feeling of displaced air before something very hard and very heavy came crashing down on his head. Bodie staggered. His vision swam sickeningly as he turned his head towards his assailant. His hand reached towards his radio but he didn't make it. Everything went black.

Doyle checked his watch anxiously. Bodie had been gone a long time, far longer than he had expected. Glancing around and trying to act unruffled he continued pushing the sets to where they were needed. Inside he was holding down his concern. He thumbed his R/T. He and Bodie had agreed that Bodie would call him, since he was meant to be keeping low.

Keeping his gaze neutral he checked over the people, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Suddenly he saw Roberson duck back in. Doyle's eyes narrowed. Roberson's features were dark, and adrenalin-filled. He seemed out of breath. While that could be attributed to working with the heavy props Doyle hadn't seen him through the entire first half. Roberson turned and saw him. He raised his eyebrows and gave a little smile as if to say, _What?_

_He knows _thought Doyle. The curtains abruptly slid down to the stage joined by a roar of applause. Doyle began to move off.

"Where ye gaeing?" Roy asked as he riffled through the box for the right piece of equipment.

"Just…um…got to get something,"

"Curtain gaes up in five, Mister Roberson will skin ye alive if yer late."

"He might skin me alive alright," Doyle hurried off leaving a bemused-looking Scot behind him.

Bodie woke with a splitting headache. It was very dark. Something warm trickled down his back. Combine that with the pain and dizziness and it didn't take a genius to figure out what it was. Awareness slowly returned to him and he realised he was hogtied and gagged. Great. He couldn't move an inch, why hadn't his attacker – he suspected Roberson – killed him after he had fallen? He'd made a right mess of that detective. He probably hadn't wanted to draw any attention to himself during the performance; sneaking out with a bloodied knife would've taken some explaining. He started straining at his bonds.

The harsh static was his only answer. Frustrated Doyle pressed the button again, swore at the uselessness of his device and then stowed it away in his pocket. He reached towards where his gun should've been and swore again. He was undercover. No gun. Right. Glancing around he found a torch hung on a hook. Taking it down, he flicked the switch. A gleam shot out. Carefully he pushed open the storeroom door.

"Bodie?" A long beam of light, swirling with dust, sliced through the darkness. He blinked a few times, let his eyes adjust and then moved forwards, disturbing the floating patterns. Cautiously he circumnavigated the death trap of props and apparatuses. Wincing at the crash of a tambourine that he bumped with his foot he moved on when he suddenly tripped over something softer. An annoyed muffled grunt reached his ears. He swivelled his light down and was rewarded with the sight of Bodie.

"Where you been?" He demanded after the tape had been removed.

"Watching the show," Doyle quipped.

"Hurry up, my head hurts feels like someone's been using it as a hammer." Doyle directed the torch towards the back of his partner's skull and grimaced.

"Looks like it too." He moved off a bit and began checking through the clutter.

"Where're you going?" Bodie's head was feeling worse each time he spoke.

"To find something sharp, back in a minute."

Bodie's warning came just in time. Doyle whirled back, barely avoiding the attack. Roberson had attempted the same trick he had pulled on Bodie but this time he was armed with a knife. He stabbed at the agent and Doyle leapt away, only centimetres from the slashing blade. Bodie could only look on as Roberson tried to slice open his friend. Doyle, using the torch as a weapon, pressed his brief advantage. Grabbing Roberson's wrist he knocked the knife out. It skated across the floorboards making a scratchy noise. Suddenly his opponent shoved him and, losing his footing Doyle crashed onto a pile of boxes. His only weapon dropped out of his hand and smashed onto the floor. The room was plunged into darkness. Dazedly he started to get up when a hand grabbed his collar. Almost in slow motion Doyle saw the shadowy figure raise the knife. With one hand he gripped the hold, with the other he scrambled for the torch. His fingers closed around the metal. The knife came striking down.

Roberson reared as Doyle shone the light in his eyes. The knife thudded into the wood, inches from his head. That was all he needed. He jumped up and delivered a devastating punch to the man's face. Roberson staggered back, blood oozing from his nose. He pushed one last assault but Doyle parried it easily and then hit him with a haymaker. Roberson toppled over like a felled tree. The beam from the door suddenly widened.

"Wha' gaeing on here?!"

Bodie was sitting on a bed in hospital, his head wrapped in clean bandages. Right now he was ogling his nurse with an appreciating feeling there were some benefits to his position right now. Doyle appeared around the corner.

"Wow, I always wondered what it was like being a visitor was like," he joked. Bodie glared at him but couldn't keep himself from grinning.

"Hey, hey, I've got 'severe concussion' you know," he spotted what Doyle was holding in his hand, "what's that?"

"A letter."

"I can see that genius," Doyle laughed.

"It's from Eppie. It says,

'Thanks for rescuing me off the gantry. I must have looked like an eejit hanging up there. There are two tickets to the show inside and I promise nobody's going to fall off if you come. Effie.

PS Thanks for beating up Mister Roberson. He nearly killed me with the harness.'" Doyle glanced down at the envelope. "Shame you won't need them."

"Why?"

"I've already arranged to go with Sophie!" Bodie stared after him as he strode out whistling. He couldn't refrain from smiling.

"Hey! Come back here!"

Finis


End file.
